Orders
by Cascade Waters
Summary: Allies, adversaries, and the unexpected. Crossover.
1. Prologue

Orders - Prologue

by firechild

Rated T

Warnings: Intense (hopefully) angst...

Spoilers: Can't tell ya yet...

Disclaimers: I own approximately half a bottle of rolaids.

-----

_Pounding._

_Pounding... feet._

_The hard clicks and clomps of heavy boots, pounding on the stone from so many directions, like the pulses of all those who'd been sacrificed already in this war, like the surging of the tide of blood still to be shed. Pounding, always pounding. Running. Chasing._

_Chasing her._

_She paused briefly, firing frantic glances around at the doors surrounding her, looking for the flames that would identify what lurked behind the dark portals. Clutching her weapon tightly, feeling its contours as though they were part of her, she turned first one way and then the other, pivoting, trying to watch all doors at once, knowing that each heartbeat brought closer those who would stop her; she couldn't let them catch her, she couldn't let these halls of justice become her tomb. She had to leave this place, she had to leave her fellow conspirators, she had to leave her life, and she had to hurry; she did not have time to think, to breathe--she couldn't breathe, her ribs were on fire, she vaguely remembered taking a shot to the chest--she didn't have time to feel anything but fear and a hollow sense of loss. She would not be able to save those she loved, the ones who had stood with her in the battle against the leaders who would bind her; she would not be able to save her comrades--the sons and daughters of the first conspirators, friends with whom she had lived and trained--or their leaders, the lone wolf and the mad master and the one who'd led two generations of the revolt. She didn't even have time to mourn the death of a dear friend and mentor who had gone down fighting against those who'd seen him convicted of mass murder. _

_Spying a door that seemed to her to stand out, she all but flew toward it. It took four tries and what felt like an eternity to open it, but beyond the threshold, she could see only a few feet of stone hallway before the light surrendered to the shadows. Perfect. _

_Hearing the pounding coming closer to the portal room, she gripped her weapon tighter and stepped into the hallway, taking an extra second to kick the door shut with her foot. With the opening went the light, leaving her alone with her thoughts and fears and instincts. Not counting on being safe now, knowing that no matter how hard or far she ran, she would never find a place beyond their reach, she kept moving. Though she knew that the enemy would still be coming for her, the only pounding she heard now was that of her own shoes drumming against the unseen stones in time with the racing thrum of her heart and the thundering of her blood in her ears. She could taste blood in her mouth now, from the chest shot, the shot that should have killed her, which she noticed with a sort of detached calm; she was sure there should be pain, there should be agony. There was only the fire, and the pounding._

_With every step, she found herself farther from her home, from her friends, from her life, from herself. With every step, she carried the memory of unspeakable acts, and the certainty that her acts, and her role in this war, were far from over. _

_With every step, she plunged, with all her will, deeper into the arms of darkness._

-----

He was going to be early. That was okay--he could get the jump on the last of the paperwork from the DeSilva case. He'd have finished it yesterday, but he'd been sidetracked when Megan had needed someone to sit with Professor Fleinhardt while the physicist composed his theory in the case on which he was consulting, and by the time Colby'd made it back to the bullpen, Don had taken a good look at him and sent him home for the night, making it clear that he didn't want to see his youngest team member until clock-in time the next morning.

Glancing at his tie knot in the mirror now, Colby shrugged to himself. He'd just have to avoid his team lead for an hour or so, make sure that the ever-early Don didn't see him as ordered. Eppes wasn't the only one who could commit to putting in whatever time was necessary to get things done right. Colby might seem like a rake, but he was used to having things done ahead of schedule, keeping the machinery running as smoothly as possible--one thing he'd taken from his time in the Army was the certainty that everyone functioned more efficiently when the details folded smoothly into the whole, and it really didn't matter to him whether or not anyone knew how he contributed to that process.

He was halfway from the lobby door to the elevator bank in the Federal building, his second slice of cold pizza in one hand and a cold Dr Pepper in the other, when he felt his cell phone vibrating in his right trouser pocket. Slipping the soda into the left pocket and deftly juggling the pizza into his left hand, he retrieved his phone and flipped it open before the fourth vibration. Out of habit, he checked the caller ID.

It was the Viscount.

Colby let the call go to voicemail, sighing and running the back of his phone hand across his forehead. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think of a reason for the Viscount to be calling him, especially before 7AM.

He wracked his brain. He hadn't done anything, at least not anything likely to draw the attention of the old man. He hadn't blown up the House of Lords, he hadn't become a tree-hugger, he hadn't caused any sort of international scandal, he hadn't produced an heir, he hadn't done anything to earn the Viscount's ire or his unlikely interest--in fact, Colby thought he'd done a pretty good job of not existing.

The last time he'd heard from the old man had been... several years ago, toward the end of his Special Forces tour. The Viscount had been calling to inform Colby that that he'd be sending Marian to the Mediterranean for her birthday and that Colby needed to be sure to select some appropriate high-quality emerald jewelry as his gift to her; the conversation had been brief and one-sided, and as the old man had said nothing about Colby's armed service or his three medals or his safety, nor had he even commented on having had to call an unlisted international number and jump through hoops to get in touch with the young operative, so Colby had kept his mouth shut, not even bothering with the expected "Yes, sir." For reasons he'd never chosen to explore, Colby had elected not to re-up his posting and had left the army, joining the FBI shortly thereafter--and Marian had exchanged her Med package partly for cash to choose her own gift and partly for three blank airline tickets in the young agent's name, saying that Colby was the only man worthy of her trust or her energy. When the Viscount had called to ask about the change, Marian, the only member of the group up until then with the moxie to stand up to the old man, Marian had affectionately fingered her channel-set emerald ring as she told him to keep his alpha male motivational skills and marching orders to himself when it came to her. She'd understood why her favorite maverick had chosen to go along with the emerald idea, but she'd assured him that if it came to a point where he decided to defy the occasional order that came his way, she'd stand by him.

He'd appreciated Marian's support more than she knew, but the issue hadn't come up. At least, not until today.

It couldn't be about Marian; Colby'd have heard first, given his proximity and connection to the only American the Viscount had ever respected. It wouldn't be about Richard or Lavinia, or Marian would be calling Colby to tell him because the old man would be too wrapped up in taking care of details. Belinda and Lucien were working in Tokyo the last he'd heard, and Lissette was supposed to be in Portugal, making contacts. There was only one other person whose fate would matter so much to the leader of the group, and no one would think to call Colby or Marian if something had befallen her.

So why would the old man be calling him now? Colby wasn't even sure how the Viscount had gotten his cell number--he doubted that Marian would have disclosed it voluntarily without his permission, and they all knew how well she responded to orders. Still, they didn't call him the Viscount for nothing; the charismatic old man had his ways, ways that Colby didn't have time to explore right now, as he could see Eppes waving him toward Conference A, and his team lead looked seriously angry to have been disobeyed. Making a quick choice between facing the the very present, very ticked and very armed FBI supervisor, and calling the pontificacious old man on another continent who might have something interesting for him, Agent Granger switched his phone to silent and marched himself in to the line of fire, planning to return the Viscount's call before his shift officially began.

Thanks to an unexpected tip the turned into a rapid series of raids and arrests in one of their colder cases, Colby wasn't in a position to make any calls until the team broke for a late lunch. Colby hung back, telling the team that he'd meet them in a few minutes, and shut himself into an observation room and dialing the international code from his ID.

He waited ten minutes, expecting to be put through a hundred hoops to be shunted to a message service, so when the familiar gruff voice snapped out at him with its customary arrogant impatience, Colby covered his surprise with a casual tone measured to be just on the safe side of disrespectful.

"Granger. You Yanked?"

-----


	2. Chapter 1

Orders

by firechild

Rated T

Warnings: Okay, no one actually _needs_ a lager, but it did kind of sound in-character to me...

Spoilers: Season 2 of Numb3rs, but only in a very general sense--if you know that Colby and Megan work with Don, you're pretty much in the know here...

Disclaimers: I own approximately half a bottle of rolaids.

-----

"Hey, Colb, c'mon, let's go hit The Bridge and get a beer." Don slapped Colby gently on the back of the shoulder with a file folder as he walked past the younger agent's desk.

"Nah, thanks, though." Colby glanced up from where he stood behind the corner of his desk, leafing through a stack of paperwork with one hand and grabbing his keys with the other.

The team stopped its drift toward the elevators, and David turned back to his partner. "Aw, come on, man, why not? We closed the case, we cleared the girl--I think she even has a crush on me now--and we shut down the hacking ring. We've only been working on this case nineteen hours a day for three weeks--we gotta celebrate! Hey, I think they got that lager you've been trying to find."

Colby smiled a little to himself at how much his friends obviously wanted to involve him in their celebration. At any other time he'd be right up there with them, but he didn't have time to party now. "No, seriously, guys, I'd love to, but I can't. I got something I gotta do tonight."

He'd hoped they'd just accept that, but David wasn't budging. "What kind of something?"

Colby straightened up and rolled his eyes. "Just something."

"...Something." David's eyebrow climbed.

Colby sighed, swallowing a tired grin. He should have known that his friends wouldn't so easily let this go; to be honest, it felt good, and he wanted to take a moment to enjoy actually being wanted, but he really had to get moving--he didn't have much time, and he couldn't afford to mess up on this. "Yes. Something. Something I have to do tonight. And tomorrow. And for the next who-knows-how-long. Something someone asked me to do. And I don't have much time to get ready, so I need to go." Colby strode through the bullpen to pass his friends, pausing next to his partner. He leaned sideways, touching David's shoulder conspiratorially. David leaned in, as well, starting to grin in anticipation of being let in on the secret. Colby looked utterly sincere as he spoke. "And she wasn't crushing on you--pretty sure she was jonesing for Don. Sorry, dude."

David looked startled, then somewhat affronted, though there was an answering twinkle in his eyes as he watched his partner take the first available elevator and disappeared from view.

The remaining agents were silent for a moment. Then, finally...

"Well, that was different." Don blinked several times and turned toward his team. "Think he's got a honey?"

"Well, he's not exactly ecstatic about whatever he's got going on, but he's way too happy for it to be a second job." Megan Reeves raised an eyebrow at the elevator doors. "It's not a new truck, I know that. Could be something else, like some sort of volunteer gig, but yeah, I'd go with the honey theory."

"New... truck...? Ooooookay, then." Don shook his head. "Whatever. Long as he's okay, I guess it's really none of our business. Even though he is part of our team. Sort of a brother, and all."

Don and Megan turned in unison to look at David. The Bronx native met their gazes blankly for a moment before realizing that they were looking at him with intent. "What?" When they simply continued to stare meaningfully at him, it dawned on him and he sighed. "Alright, alright, I'll see what I can find out. But I gotta warn you, he's been acting a little weird all afternoon, and he wouldn't give over; I don't know what I'm gonna be able to get out of him."

"What do you mean?"

David gave Don a look of exaggerated patience. "I mean, if he doesn't want to come clean about what's going on with him, he won't. He may seem like a party boy sometimes, but he was Special Forces; I'm not gonna find out anything he doesn't want me to know. Besides, he's my partner--I gotta have his back."

Don patted David on the shoulder as they moved toward a free elevator. "Sure you do; you're a good partner. I've got confidence in you, man."

David let the other two agents board first, shaking his head to himself before joining them. "Great. That's just great. Forget Granger--_I'm_ gonna need that lager."

-----


	3. Chapter 2

Orders Chapter 2

(all warnings and ratings found in prologue)

-----

_Nearer._

_She could hear them, pounding and slithering, invading every corner of a shadow suddenly filled with sharp edges._

_She could feel them, the heat of their hungry gazes dilling holes into her back and her soul._

_She could smell them, determination oozing from them in their quest to subject her to their sense of justice._

_But she couldn't see them--not that she would turn to look and risk losing precious steps. The darkness was so deep that she was no longer sure of where she was going; she only knew that she had to get away, had to escape their clutches and find a place to hide, to think, to disappear in a crowd. She knew that there was no place where they wouldn't find her in time, but that was all she could hope for now--time, time to reinvent herself, time to nurse her wounds so that she could carry on the rebellion, time to plan her next strike so that the next time they saw her, it would be on her terms. And she needed time to carry out her last order._

_She needed time to breathe. _

_Time to rest. _

_She was so tired; exhaustion crept through her, in her very marrow, like a living thing, more alive at the moment than her. She needed to rest, but she couldn't stop now, couldn't afford to slow down, until she found a place to land, to hide, and either someone she could trust or someone she could fool. She had to believe that she was getting nearer._

_But she wasn't the only one._

-----

"When the world gets in my way..."

Colby hummed a little as he worked to the beat of Bon Jovi, his stereo volume on low. He'd left work on time for once, and now it was a few minutes till 8pm. He was pleased with his progress so far; at this rate, he thought he might actually get a little sleep tonight.

While his friends had been out celebrating the night before, Colby had been clearing out the small study in his apartment, moving meticulously ordered collections of books and memorabilia out of the modest space and arranging them in the bed of his truck so that he could take them to his storage unit in the morning. Once that chore had been accomplished, he'd dusted all of the shelves and checked the corners for cobwebs, then he'd vacuumed the study and living room. He'd just finished vacuuming when David had dropped by, trying to be subtle as he fished for information. Colby had only revealed the barest facts about what was coming, not wanting to overwhelm his partner. Realizing that he wasn't going to get anything else, David had finally left, sure that there had to be much more to this story. Colby had simply shaken his head and chuckled to himself before getting back to his task.

Today, everyone on the team had gently prodded for information, making it obvious that David's visit last night had been a sanctioned mission, which amused Colby, who wasn't comfortable center-stage but did appreciate that his coworkers cared enough about him to be interested in his personal life. He'd already figured that eventually he'd have to explain part of what was going on, but he was still hoping that he might not have to go into detail about the assignment or from whence his orders had come; he felt that that information was need-to-know, and that they didn't have a need.

He pulled his thoughts from that uncomfortable path as the CD player switched tracks; he was determined to face this with as much dignity and discretion as possible, and part of that was keeping a positive attitude. He couldn't afford to let the shadows of his past endanger the stability he'd found, at least not for another day or so.

His apartment, always military-neat, had gotten a deep-clean, and he'd made a list of what he needed to get now to make it acceptable. He was just getting ready to go to his storage unit and then to the department store when he opened his front door to find David standing on the other side, fist raised to knock. The two men blinked at each other for a moment before laughing; David told Colby that he just couldn't stop thinking about Colby's situation and that he wanted to help. Colby thought to himself that David didn't know what he was getting himself into--for that matter, Colby wasn't so sure how he was going to handle it himself--and he was much more comfortable keeping this part of his life to himself, but he nodded without knowing why. David went with him to run his errands and to help out, and to his credit, he didn't press for more information. Colby was grateful for that; the truth, as little of it as Colby could manage, would be out soon enough, and he had a feeling that nothing would ever be the same after that.

-----


	4. Chapter 3

Orders ch. 3

-----

_Rumbling._

_All around her was rumbling, vibration within vibration. Her world tilted, and moments later, she heard a mighty thump, a screech, and a smaller thump; the world righted itself, but it was still moving, still rumbling and roaring so that she began to think that it would never stop._

_And then it did stop. _

_Her mark was waiting._

_And it was time._

-----

It was time.

Colby checked his watch for the fourth time, leaving his internal clock feeling slightly insulted. Parking as close as he could manage, he locked down his truck and hiked toward the building in front of him, hoping that he would be only a few minutes behind the arrival. He wouldn't admit even to himself that he was nervous; it was silly, really--after all, he'd done two tours in Special Forces before going into the FBI, and while he wasn't stupid enough to be beyond all fear, of all the things in the world that should make him anxious, a situation like this shouldn't be on that list.

He might be pretty sure that he was going to screw this up, knew for certain that the Viscount expected him to screw it up, but Colby capped his nerves and hid them as he passed through the security kiosk that led into the terminal, nodding to the one guard he recognized and flashing his badge at the others, asking access to the terminal by telling them that he was there under orders to escort a foreign citizen into the city. Some of the guards were clearly uncomfortable with this, but the one he knew vouched for his credibility and got him through. He stowed his badge in the right hip pocket of his jeans, comfortable knowing that his piece was holstered at the small of his back, tucked under his loose summer henley. The terminal was fairly full for this time of day, and as he checked the board, he saw that he was looking at the manifest from a larger plane than he'd been expecting, apparently a last-minute switch. The flight number was the same, though; he had about as much confidence in the Viscount letting him know about any major changes as the Viscount had in Colby in general, but his gut told him that he was in the right place, and he'd long ago learned to trust his gut.

He half-wished that he'd made a sign, but part of his orders had been to keep a low profile and wear the ring--the Viscount's signet, the ring that Colby had only because Marian had insisted on it during the exile--so that his charge would recognize him. Discipline kept him from glancing at the ring, though the hard, cold weight of it echoed the sensation of the Viscount's eyes on him, the few times he'd actually merited any attention. No matter, though; after years of gathering dust in a drawer, it would serve a purpose for once.

He cast his gaze through the crowd, silent cursing the Viscount for not at least providing some sort of description. As Colby watched, he wondered just how much authority he'd have if some sort of trouble cropped up with his charge; he held no rank or seniority with the Viscount and never would, but this was Colby's post, Colby's territory, and he refused to be caught with his pants down, should he need to protect, defend, or take down his... assignment.

He wondered just how much trouble he was inviting, if he should have indoctrinated some backup, but the agent shrugged off that thought almost immediately--he wasn't so much of a fool or a coward that he would take on the world without asking for help, but this wasn't the world--yet--and these weren't anyone else's orders.

As he waited, Colby, ever the soldier in thought if not in word, continued to run through scenarios in his mind until the crowd began to thin out just...

There.

He saw his charge now--standing alone, watching for him, looking small and alone and vulnerable, and a lot like her father.

And perfectly normal.

Colby sighed inwardly with relief; he hadn't known if he should be bracing for a Britney or a princess or a Goth, any of which he would have accepted and handled, but the sight of the ordinary young lady in the conservative tweed skirt suit, dark-blonde hair tethered in a slightly wispy bun that couldn't be comfortable, not tall enough in her flats for her head to reach his shoulder, eased some of Colby's concerns.

He started toward her, watching as she turned to keep an eye out for the stranger, folding her arms over her chest as she moved; the gesture seemed weary, protective rather than irked, and Colby felt a pang of empathy--he knew from experience that transcontinental flights could be especially uncomfortable for a teenager.

She spotted him as she straightened, glancing at his hands and finding the familiar ring. Her eyes--Richard's eyes--came up to meet Colby's, and she shyly returned his gentle smile, but Colby's trouble radar went up. She lowered her arms to her sides and gingerly pulled herself up to her full height, but her eyes held something (besides the smile) that Richard's never had--a shadow of pain and knowledge, a type of knowledge that Colby had seen too many times, including every time he looked in a mirror. It was the brother of the thousand-yard stare, a kind of brand only burned into a person who'd seen a horrific event--it happened in some trauma victims and murder witnesses, but it was most common among soldiers. The thought of someone her age having seen something horrifying almost brought Colby up short, but more than his sense of duty, the empathy that had just become kinship propelled him to her.

Her eyes might be shadowed, her right hand twitching at her side as if itching to draw a weapon (he wondered with growing worry why Richard's little girl would be carrying any kind of weapon, and just what it was that she'd witnessed) but her shy smile was sincere as her gaze bounced from his face to his ring again and then back up to his eyes. She raised her eyebrows.

""The kingdom was formed to stand forth alone…"

He poured as much reassurance as possible into his own smile; his gut was telling him that his 'assignment' was about to become far more than simple orders. Then again, he'd liked her the first time he'd met her, when her birth had made Richard and even the Viscount seem like warm-blooded human beings. Not that Colby could blame them—she'd always been the most precious thing to come from this mess. And though he already knew he'd give anything to take that shadow from her eyes, it was nice to see that she was almost as normal as he was.

"…and be distinguished from other nations." He finished the old family code, a quote from a 19th-century clergyman, and offered his hand.

"Hello, Hermione—welcome to Yanksville."

-----


	5. Chapter 4

Orders ch 4

Rated T

Disclaimer: The canon characters from Numb3rs belong to Cheryl and Nick; Hermione belongs to JK Rowling, as do the concepts of her parents (I never did get their names) and any other canon characters. Any other characters mentioned belong to me, and no, I'm not getting paid.

Spoilers: Everything up through the end of Order of the Phoenix is fair game.

Warning: Yes, that's right--this is a Numb3rs/HP crossover. Yes, this is AU. I have not read the last HP novel, nor will I until this trilogy is done, for reasons that will become obvious eventually, and I do not want to be spoiled about the novel; I am ignoring the Janus List issue for this story. The timelines for the two series will not match; I am trying to maintain as much character integrity as possible, but I don't have a perfect memory, and my research opportunities are patchy.

A/N: I've created a window of time between the end of Hermione's 5th year and the beginning of her summer plans.

--

_Finally--on the move again, this time toward her goal. _

_And her mark was right here, like a big American puppy dog, trying to impress her with his manners._

_Oh, this was going to be too easy, almost too easy to be fun._

_Almost._

--

"What kind of luggage do you have?"

"Just my hanging bag and my trunk."

Colby raised his eyebrows in surprise--he'd have expected Lavinia's daughter to come complete with a full suite of matching luggage, probably bearing some of the Union Jack chipped security tags that Richard's side venture made. His mind flickered briefly on the word 'trunk,' but he just filed it away.

He scanned their surroundings before leading her toward the baggage claim, his fingertips resting lightly in the middle of her back; even through two layers of traveling suit (and whatever girls wore underneath those things) he could feel the tension in her young muscles. He still wasn't sure why the Viscount had sent her here or what she planned while she was here, but he was beginning to feel very protective of her, and he hoped that he could find some way to erase her distress.

They reached the carousel to find it still, the other passengers gathering around to wait as an airport technician checked out the problem. The tech mumbled and grumbled to herself, then strode away, and a few minutes later, with a groan and a screech, the belt started to move, bringing scattered applause and weak cheers from a few of the weary passengers. Colby and Hermione waited a few minutes as most of the people snatched up their baggage; soon, the two near-strangers were all but alone at the edge of the carousel, and Colby was just beginning to wonder if Lucien and Belinda were going to get Hermione's stuff instead, when they heard a series of plunks and thuds from the chute, and the next thing they knew, the belt turned and they saw a half-length leather hanging bag and...

...a trunk. Colby grunted. When she'd said 'trunk,' she hadn't been kidding. He hadn't seen one like that since, well... never, actually.

He shrugged to himself, then grinned a little--she might be younger, but he was faster; she started to lean forward to get her things, but before she could get very far, Colby had the hanging bag draped over his left forearm and was getting a two-handed grip on the trunk. He hefted it, paused for a moment to catalog the balance and weight, then hitched up a knee to support the trunk while he juggled the hanging bag to his right arm and then hefted the trunk up to rest on his left shoulder, able to get the bag back over his left forearm before gripping the handle of the trunk with his left hand, leaving his right hand free out of long habit and sense. Hermione reached for her possessions, protesting, but Colby just gently guided her toward the exit, quietly assuring her that he had a handle on it.

He kept her close as he walked her out to his pickup, touching a button in his pocket to deactivate the anti-theft system and then drawing a curious look from the girl as he pulled out a key and manually unlocked the door to the passenger side of the cab extension; he settled the hangar head of the hanging bag onto the built-in hook over the doorframe and then slid the trunk off of his shoulder and slipped it neatly across the floorboard space, gently brushing the bottom edge of the hanging bag. "What do you have in this thing--Balmoral?"

She blushed and ducked, but he caught her shy little smile at the teasing. "Couldn't, as it was busy when I rang. Seems its schedule was already a bit packed." Colby groaned, then chuckled, and watched her smile turn to a pleased grin. He opened her door and helped her up into the passenger seat, then went around and got in behind the wheel, buckling his seat belt and starting the engine. "Sorry about that--it's just my books and homework."

"Homework?" Colby shot her an incredulous look. "I thought you were out for the summer. Can you buckle up for me?"

"Huh? Oh. Sorry." Hermione twisted to grab the seat belt, and Colby caught her tripping exhale, adding to his suspicion that she'd been hurt.

"Alright there?" He kept the question casual, growing more and more determined to get the story but his gut telling him that this was the wrong time to push.

"What? Yeah, I'm fine." She kept her tone breezy, mentally cursing herself for not exercising more control; the pain in her ribs was the last thing she needed to discuss with him.

Colby let it go--for now. He noticed that she looked a little pale, though, so he offered her a stick of gum. "Mint'll help settle your stomach, and the chewing will help with your ears. So... homework?"

Enter the second-last thing she needed to discuss with him. "Thank you. My school is... a bit unconventional. We have mostly the same teachers every term, and some of them assign homework over the holiday to keep us on our toes."

"I'm sorry."

Hermione smiled at his sympathetic tone. "It's okay--I love my school, and I've always loved reading and learning, so the homework doesn't really bother me. Besides, it's just a few essays and such, not a big deal."

Colby visibly shuddered. "That's cool, I'm glad you're such a dedicated student, but I guess I'm just one of those uncultured Americans who thinks that vacations are supposed to be, uh, I don't know, vacations. Besides, essays, yeah, not really my strong suit."

She gave him another measuring look, this one critical. "Not a fan of the written word?"

Colby quirked a fraction of a grin. "Oh, don't worry, despite all big-dumb-jock appearances to the contrary, I can actually read, and I can even write my own name." He saw out of the corner of his eye that she had the good grace to blush. "Nah, I'm cool with it; there's a lot of paperwork involved in my job, so I guess I actually did need to learn how to write decently. I guess I just never liked essays because, I don't know, I guess they just took too long to do."

"So in other words, you just can't sit still." Now she was teasing, with a tinge of feministic condescension.

"Assumptions, assumptions. I can sit still, as a matter of fact--I learned to do that at about the same time that I learned to dress myself and share my toys."

Hermione flushed again. "I-I'm sorry, that was tactless of me. I'm sure you're a nice person, especially as you've taken time from your life to fetch a complete stranger."

Colby smiled good-naturedly at her. "Don't sweat it. My mom worked two jobs while raising me, I had a female CO who ran a tight unit, and I trust a woman to have my back every day; a confident young lady doesn't scare me. And technically, you're not a complete stranger."

She turned slightly toward him, her breath catching again at the motion, but other than closing her eyes briefly, she put away her reaction. "What do you mean, technically I'm not a complete stranger? We've never met--in fact, until two days ago, I'd hardly ever even heard of..."

She trailed off, and he decided that if she could play the brave little soldier, so could he. He stowed the wince that came with confirmation of his lack of status (really, why did that even bother him now? It wasn't like it mattered.) "Hate to burst your bubble there, but actually, we have." He could feel her confusion and doubt, so he continued gamely, "I'm not surprised that no one told you, but I met you when you were a baby."

"No... no, no one ever mentioned it. Was it a good meeting? Did I make a good impression?"

Now, why on earth would she care about that? She sounded concerned, and he couldn't resist. "Puked in my face." Stopped for the moment by traffic, he turned briefly to see her mortified look, and added in the same dry tone, "I thought it was a good sign." He laughed as she gaped at him. "Sweetie, you were seven months old, you'd just eaten something that I've never been able to stand, and you were ignoring everyone else just like I'd expect from any child of Richard's. You deigning to throw up that crud on me seemed like a mark of comraderie. And it made your dad blush, which nearly made the whole trip worth it right there."

It only took her a few seconds to recover her power of speech. "No wonder no one told me--how embarrassing! But why did no one mention that you'd visited? I thought you'd never been to our side of the pond before. What brought you then?"

He blinked in surprise. "You did. The Viscount wanted to show off his new granddaughter--and you were much more beautiful than anyone in your gene pool, still are--so he called us back to ooh and ahh over you."

"Us? Who was with you? Why did it take you seven months to come? Wait a minute--how old were you?" She was sharp, he'd give her that. She was also blushing madly at his matter-of-fact compliment.

"Oh, that's right, you wouldn't know much about her, either. Ever hear the Viscount mention a Marian?" He saw her tentative nod and wasn't sure whether or not to be surprised. "She thought you were the most precious baby girl she'd ever seen. She'd like you now, too. You're both smart, and something tells me you're tough, too. Marian's the pistol of the bunch--when the Viscount needed someone to reinvent the wheel for him, she was his girl. She knows a little, or sometimes a lot, about a lot of things, and she's always been the one to use her brain to clean up other peoples' messes. I guess you could call her the critical problem solver of the outfit. She's also the only other non-Brit."

"Ah." Hermione smiled a little, and they both knew that she and Marian would like each other.

"Anyway, there were priorities. Belinda and Lissette had to be recieved first, and Belinda was still trying to draw Lucien into the whole shebang, and there were other things going on. You know how busy the Viscount is." To head off the questions that he could all but feel forming in her mind, questions that he didn't have the authority to answer and that she shouldn't bother with, Colby turned the tide. "So, how long have you been at this special school?"

"How long have you been out of school?"

Uh-oh. This one wasn't going to be so easy to redirect. "Long enough to not be required to answer impertinent questions from schoolgirls." His grin took most of the reprimand out of his words as he navigated the truck around the ever-popular construction-less road construction blockade. "Honey, seriously, I'm not that interesting. I spend most of my days just like millions of other boring working stiffs, suit and all. There's a reason they never bother to talk about me." And hopefully she'd accept that and never ask what that reason might be. "You're the guest here--I'd rather talk about you. We don't get the newsletter over here--I know almost nothing about the last fifteen-and-a-half years of your life."

She shifted a little shyly, smoothing her skirt as she thought about how to answer his question, and how not to answer. Until the last few weeks, except for the occasional inconvenient detail (like, oh, having her best friend targeted by escaped convicts and incorporeal scions of evil, and all the pesky dangerous situations she found herself in because of it) she'd been accustomed to her family knowing where she was and what she was and having a general idea of what she was learning. Her parents and grandfather had been so very proud when they'd learned that she was a witch and was to be trained formally, and they'd done all they could to assure themselves that Hogwarts was a prestigious institution; of course, they hadn't made a habit of advertising any of this, but she knew that discretion was sometimes a mark of approval rather than shame. So she wasn't surprised that this man didn't know--in fact, that was about the only thing that hadn't surprised her about this whole situation.

It seemed years and yet only hours since she'd roused and discovered that the battle in the Ministry was over, that she and her classmates had survived but that the wounds went so much deeper and required so much more than a night in the hospital wing; if Professor Dumbledore had been the soul of the fight, and Professor Lupin had been the mind, and Mrs. Weasley had been the heart, then Sirius had been the spirit, and in many ways their spirits had died with him. With the requirements of the end of term and the inquiries about that horrible night, none of them had really had time to grieve, which couldn't be good for Harry but seemed a blessing now for Hermione--Harry would need her to be strong, and this absurd change to her summer routine served as an excuse to stave off any shows of emotion. She had been expecting to have to gloss over anything her parents might have heard, so when her grandfather hadn't mentioned anything beyond her looking 'tired' and had stopped her from settling in by announcing that his driver would be taking her to the airport to send her thousands of miles to the care of an underling she'd never met for a 'change of scenery,' the girl had wondered briefly if she'd hit her head during the battle and was having an elaborate delusion. Nevertheless, the Viscount was the Viscount, and when he doled out orders, no one questioned them, or at least no one she knew of, so with a tired curtsy and a sporting smile, she'd accepted his kiss to her forehead and tried to freshen up for the long flight ahead; secretly, part of her had been glad, as this assured that she'd have time to banish the lingering soreness from that blunted curse before she might have to explain it to her rather overprotective parents.

Now if she could just manage to not have to explain it to her obviously observant chaperone. She wondered what he did for a living, if he applied those keen eyes to accounting or land management or motivational speaking.

"Well," she started, taking a deep breath and keeping her eyes on her lap, "there's not much to tell, really. I mean, I'm just your everyday British schoolgirl. I've just finished my fifth year. You couldn't possibly be interested in the tedium of a teenager's school life. It's all rather dull, really."

"Uh-huh." She barely had time to feel alarmed at the disbelief in his tone--she'd never been all that accomplished at prevarication. "What are you studying? What's your favorite subject?"

She had to bite back a sigh of relief; that, she could answer. Sort of. "Oh, I like most of them well enough, though I confess I'm rather taken with history--I get to do a lot of reading there. Oh, and arith--er, numbers; I like knowing how they play into everything I do."

Her guardian snorted. "Sound like someone else I know. You start missing being in school, you just ask him why you have to study math, and he'll lecture till the cows come home." He checked his mirrors and his blind spot and then smoothly changed lanes, working his way toward an exit ramp. "What don't you?"

Hermione furrowed his brow, not understanding the question. "What don't I what?"

"You said you like most of them well enough. Most isn't all, at least not if you and my friend haven't redefined math that much. So what subjects don't you like?"

Uh-oh. This one wasn't going to be so easy to misdirect. "Ah, well... er..." She didn't like lying to anyone, didn't want to lie to this man who'd already made her feel less like a job just by talking to her like a real person, but how did she get around this question? 'Uh, well, I really can't stand Divination--I can magic the pants off of most anyone, but I don't want to have to tell that old bat of a professor that she was nearly right in predicting my best friend's death'? Somehow, that just didn't roll off the tongue. "Uh, I haven't really been too impressed with my, er, statistics professor, and I've not had great feelings about my care of, er, creatures course."

Statistics. Great. Looked like he'd be introducing her to Charlie after all, if only to give her a chance to make up for the failings of her teacher. "Creatures? Like veterinary training? Did you take care of the school horses or something?"

Maybe he had missed her hesitation. "Something like that, yes. I'm not scared of them, nothing like that, but I'm not exactly a dab hand with... large animals."

He chuckled a little. "Well, you won't have to worry about running into many of them around here. You've heard of the concrete jungle? Well, this is basically your steel-and-glass jungle, with a healthy dose of silicone and botox thrown in just to make things interesting. Don't suppose you've ever been to LA before?"

The girl shook her head. "I've been over most of Europe and some of Asia with my parents, we've been skiing and sightseeing and on a couple of cruises, and we might go to Egypt, I've heard that's great fun, but I've never been to America before. It's..."

"Different?" He arched a brow.

"From London? Some, but not as much as I expected. Of course, you've been there, so you'd know. As for school..." She trailed off, envisioning the castle and the surrounding countryside, Hogsmeade, the Forbidden Forest, the view from the train. She stifled a yawn, surprised and a little annoyed that it had snuck up on her. "My school is very much removed from anything urban, so I suppose it is a kind of culture shock, coming here with only a brief stop in London."

"Sounds nice; maybe you'll send me a postcard from school next year." He didn't hold out much hope for that--he didn't really expect her to remember him, or to particularly want to, when she left, but the words just came out.

She didn't know how she'd manage to send a postcard of Hogwarts that didn't contain waving tower flags and impossible creatures, but the thought sounded nice. "Are you from Los Angeles? Were you born here?"

Her chaperone shook his head, keeping his eyes on his remarkably graceful driving. "Nope. I'm not only a big dumb jock, I'm a hick. Grew up in Idaho, in a little farm town called Winchester. We were surrounded by mountains and valleys and hills and these weird upright structures that I seem to remember they called trees. I think there might be one in a museum somewhere around here." He was glad to hear her soft giggle. "I kinda hear you about culture shock. There, I was about the most cultured person in town. Here, I do my best not to end up being a culture all over someone's bumper." Ignoring her second question, he smoothly pulled into a parking space in front of a high-rise building. He turned off the ignition but gently stopped her from unbuckling her seat belt, locking his serious eyes with her wide ones. "Which reminds me--I know you've probably had a long school year, and I'm thinking you weren't expecting this whole thing any more than I was, and I want you to see this as an actual vacation and have fun and, for goodness' sake, relax, and I'm not trying to crash the party, but while you're here, there're gonna be some ground rules. Have I got your attention?"

She nodded, her eyes going even wider, though he didn't think she was objecting to the concept of rules. "Good. Now, you can ask me for anything you need, you can come to me about anything," he emphasized, very much wanting her to know she was safe enough to confide in him about whatever had put that shadow in her eyes and the pain in her movements, "but there are a couple of things that are gonna have to be set in stone." He'd thought about this and decided that, Viscount or no, orders or no, permanent disgrace or no, he had to be able to protect her while she was here. He reached back for a small bag behind his seat, and out of it he pulled a red plastic device. "I know most American kids have their own cell phones these days, but I didn't know if you would or not, so I got you one with a local number." He handed it to her, sort of pleased with himself when she indicated that she didn't own one. "LA can be a real nice place, and some of the people here are awesome, but that doesn't make every corner of this city safe, especially for a kid. So, you don't go anywhere without me or someone I've okayed; you don't turn that phone off or ignore it if I call--if you're in a movie or something, you can set it to vibrate, I'll show you how to change the settings and how to send text messages, but you leave it on, you keep it with you, and you answer when I call; you do what I say, when I say it--I'm not big on issuing orders, so if I tell you to do something, there's gonna be a good reason for it, and I think you're smart enough to know that sometimes you just have to obey; and you don't lie to me--I know better than most that sometimes you just can't tell everything you know, and I respect that you don't know me all that well yet, but we have to be able to trust each other not to be dishonest. Got me?"

Hermione nodded, and he was sure that she'd taken in everything he'd said, but he had to check. "Good. Four basic rules. I can't promise there won't ever be more, but those stick. And since you like school so much, how about you review them for me, just the highlights."

A great fan of structure and guidelines and reason, Hermione had no problem rehashing his perfectly reasonable rules. "I don't go anywhere alone or without permission, I keep the phone so that you can get in touch with me, if you need to tell me to do something then I do it, and I give you the respect of being as honest as possible." It was only keeping them, or rather the last one, that might be problematic, but he didn't need to know that, especially not when he was looking at her with such serious eyes. She had no trouble believing that he wanted to keep her safe, and though she was beginning to understand that he wasn't capable of that, the fact that he cared was enough to want to protect him from that bit of her reality.

He saw the flicker in her eyes, but it seemed more uncertainty than anything, so he let it go, smiling to break the tension. "Alright then. What do you say we get out of this beast and I show you where you can unpack?" That won a smile from her.

A few minutes later, they were standing in his apartment while he apologized for the lack of space. When he showed her the curtained study, with the daybed he said a friend had lent him and the little wardrobe he'd obviously built for her, she assured him that it was lovely and that he'd gone to too much trouble. Colby assured her that there was no such thing and that he wanted her to be as comfortable as possible; he showed her the bathroom, sparingly decorated in grays and blues, then the rest of the apartment, and offered to change his sheets and trade rooms with her. Hermione waved that off as rubbish and said that she'd be quite happy (she assured him that neutral-colored bedding had been a nice choice and asked him to thank his friend for the sweet little bed) but didn't get much further before a massive yawn grabbed her by the throat. She thought that she hid it from him, but when his next words were a soft suggestion that she get comfortable and take a nap, she turned guilty eyes up to him and found him empathetic.

"Jet lag stinks."

As the events of the past few days settled around her, she couldn't agree more.

--

When she woke from a blessedly dreamless sleep, she was surprised and dismayed to see that the light through the window was dim; she was still so tired that it took a few minutes before she could convince herself to go to the window, and when she did, she saw bits of sunset peeking between the buildings. She had to sit down again after a minute, and she studied the soft pile of the little rug he'd placed beside the bed as the cream-colored fibers cropped up between her bare toes.

She was still staring at her feet a few minutes later when she heard a soft knock and then the rustle of the curtain being nudged aside. She looked up in time to see Colby peeking in obliquely, as if he was trying to see without seeing. Smiling, she leaned sideways slowly, trying to enter his line of sight without getting dizzy; when he realized that she was awake, he grinned self-consciously and slipped the curtain farther down its rod so that he could lean on the 'doorframe.'

"Sorry, sweetie," he said, "I've been checking on you off and on, but I didn't want to disturb you or come in at the wrong moment."

Hermione thought that was sweet of him, and she wondered briefly why a man so good at making people feel safe didn't have a family of his own. She gave him a tired smile and then blushed as a yawn overtook her. She wanted to lay down and go back to sleep, but he forestalled that idea. "I know you're tired, believe me, I know, but I'd like you to come on out and eat with me. Nothing heavy, but you need a little something in your system. Then, if you want to crash again, that's fine, or you can stay up awhile with me, your choice."

She wasn't hungry, didn't really want to think about food, but she knew from experience that he was right, and he was her host, so she pulled herself up to standing, letting the room settle before following him through the curtain and to the kitchen. Colby's apartment wasn't large, but he'd obviously made the space work efficiently--he'd found a table that fit well in the small kitchen, with just enough room for two, and presently it was draped in dark blue plastic and set simply.

True to his word, dinner wasn't to be heavy--each place held a steaming baked potato, open and unembellished, and she saw bowls between them holding almost a dozen garnishments. Colby held out a chair for her, then brought her a glass of ice water before taking his own seat and offering her first crack at the condiments. She wasn't hungry, exactly, but her stomach seemed to think that it might be alright to try eating after all. Hermione added a little butter and a pinch of salt, and, as an afterthought, a small spoonfull of what he said were parsley flakes, and was a little amused to see that he'd loaded his potato with butter, cheese, green onions, bacon, chicken, parsley flakes, garlic powder, and something called ranch dressing. He noticed her look and grinned back a little sheepishly.

The two near-strangers ate in companionable silence, and after he'd stowed their leftovers in the fridge, she asked if she could take a shower and go back to bed. He showed her the towels, the toiletries, the light blue robe he'd hung on the door hook for her, and the bath stuff that he'd bought, looking relieved when she assured him that she liked vanilla and would probably try it out when she was less wrung-out. He muttered something about two guys shopping for a girl, and Hermione had a sudden vision of Harry and Ronald in a muggle store, trying to choose something for her. She managed not to laugh until she was back in her own little space--amazing how quickly it had begun to feel like hers--fishing out her hair and tooth brushes.

His shower had respectable water pressure, but she took only long enough to wash away the plane ride before climbing back into bed, not even bothering to exchange the robe for a nightgown.

There were no clocks in the little nook, so it wasn't until Hermione looked at the display on her very first cell phone that she realized that he'd let her sleep until almost 11am. A natural structurist, she was a little horrified to find that not only had she had the mother of all lie-ins, but she'd done it in the robe he'd given her rather than in proper nightclothes. She rose too quickly and discovered that she was still a bit woozy, though she'd never had jet lag last so long. Fighting past it, the girl dressed in her only clean outfit--another skirt suit--and hastily twisted her hair into a bun. Wishing that she'd taken the time to do some wash before she'd left school and knowing that she couldn't perform any magic now, she slipped back into her flats and emerged.

The apartment was so quiet that at first she thought that he might have left her here alone--after all, he did have employment--and found that that thought bothered her a little, though she wasn't sure why, since it would certainly not be the first time she'd been on her own for a few hours. She found herself at loose ends in his living room, which she'd barely seen the day before, and was drawn to the pictures around the room. Colby seemed to be the sort not overly bothered about decorating, but he had scattered photographs on the walls and tables, still images of all sorts of people, several notably wearing camouflage--and she had a feeling that it wasn't a fashion statement. The single photo atop the television depicted Colby in sand-colored fatigues with his arm around a similarly-dressed young man, a military Jeep at their backs, with a loop of yellow ribbon resting between photo and glass under the other man's pose. One of the frames on the wall, tucked near a corner and not prominently displayed, held a certificate of honorable discharge, with a space cut from the matting below the paper.

So her guardian had been a soldier.

She found her eyes drawn to the ribboned picture, wondering about the significance of the ribbon and about how that photograph had earned a place of honor; she also wondered why Colby himself wasn't in any of the other pictures, and what belonged in the hole beneath his discharge certificate. Everything about this understated man's understated existence seemed to evoke more questions.

"Now don't you just look all fancy?"

His voice was quiet, but she whirled, startled just the same. Hermione opened her mouth to apologize for intruding, but closed it when she saw his half-grin. Colby leaned one shoulder against the entry to the living room, his body tilted, his arms folded and ankles crossed casually, and somehow the nonchalant pose did nothing to diminish his size. The girl had the sudden thought that she wouldn't want to be on his bad side; dumb, he was not, but a jock she could believe, and big was obvious. Then she realized that he evidently hadn't left her but had just let her rest, which struck her as considerate, and that he seemed amused. She finally found her voice, uncertain how to take his grin. "I-I"m sorry."

"Don't be sorry, sweetheart; be comfortable." He pushed himself off of the wall with just a ripple of shoulder muscles, unfolding as he straightened, and slipped into the smallish space, joining but not crowding her. "Those outfits are really classy and you wear them well, but you don't have to dress like a flight attendant for me."

Hermione cast a distracted look down at herself. "Oh." She blushed, not sure how to broach this. "Um... I have a slight confession to make."

He grinned again. "I can handle confessions--they're supposed to be good for the soul."

She found herself smiling in response, ducking sheepishly. "I, uh, er, that is... I didn't really get much chance to do any wash before I came."

Colby nodded slowly. "I hear ya. Listen, my apartment's not much, but I do have a washer and dryer; why don't you let me start a load for you?"

Relief washed over the girl. "Oh, thank you, but you don't have to do that! If you don't mind me using your equipment, I can do it myself."

"Mind? Hey, mi casa es su casa. I ask only that if something is locked, you leave it alone. Other than that, consider yourself home. Oh," he added, blushing himself, "and it'd be really great if you didn't run around naked. I know you British girls are just all kinds of wild, but ya know..."

She giggled. "Right, then. I'll just ring the embassy and ask them to cancel that order of exotic dancers. Wouldn't want to overload your delicate American senses."

He laughed outright. "Touche." Colby glanced around the room before settling his gaze back on her, this time appraising. "How are you feeling? Any better?"

Hermione had the feeling that he wasn't talking about the jet lag; she appreciated that he cared, but she appreciated more that he wasn't really pushing hard, and she really hoped that he'd just forget about it. She instinctively folded her arms across her torso, trying to make it look casual. "Loads better, thanks," she said with a bright smile, telling the truth, if not about what he might really be asking.

And his eyes told her that he was reading her like an educational decree; he'd let it slide for now, but he might not be content with that for long. "Good to know. Listen, I hate having to leave you, even for a little bit, but I really need to get something from my office, something I need to finish up for my boss. I'd ask my partner to drop it off after work, but he could have to leave at any time for some field work. Now, I'm here for you, I'm not gonna ignore you, so don't be afraid to come to me if you need anything, but our deadlines have been moved up. They know I'm home with a guest, so I'll be there just long enough to grab my paperwork; will you be okay here by yourself for an hour, or do you want to come with me?"

Oddly enough, now that she had a heads-up about it, a short time here without him didn't bother her. It might even be a good time to start on some of that 'homework' for the Order. Besides, he'd been so thoughtful to her, and she hated that she was making him worry. "Oh, no, you go on, I'll be fine! I've got books to read and projects to start, and I'd better get some clothes into the wash. Don't worry about me--I'm a big girl!"

So now they were projects, not essays. Interesting. He filed that away for later, more concerned about her evasions. He really didn't want to leave her, but Marian's axiom about watched pots kept running through his mind. "Anything else on your mind? Any questions about anything?"

To keep herself from plucking up her curiosity about the soldier pictures and opening that particular pixie cage, Hermione started to shake her head, then stopped, looking down to the right, her smile melting away into a slightly uncomfortable frown as something occured to her. Colby ducked down a little to get a better look at her face. "What is it, honey?"

The young girl took a breath and looked up at him, her outfit belying how young she really was. "I'm sorry, but... what do I call you? I--I mean, I don't want to be rude or impertinent or anything, and maybe it's a stupid question, but... all I have is your first name, if Colby is your first name, and it seems so improper for me to address you that way. I guess I'm just old-fashioned, I'm not really comfortable just calling you Colby..." She trailed off.

Something seemed to click in his eyes. "Wow, I really am persona non grata. They didn't tell you."

--


	6. Chapter 5

Orders 5

"Niece?"

The surprise in the conference room was palpable. Only the mingled hurt and uncertainty in Colby's eyes kept David from feeling indignant as Don so succinctly summed it up in that single word. He'd known that Colby had been ordered by someone to play host to a young lady, which had been worrisome by itself, but never had this particular detail cropped up as they'd set up the 'guest room' and shopped for girl stuff. David had teased the younger agent about booty calls and had been a little surprised when Colby had shut down that idea decisively, but the New Yorker, knowing admittedly little about his partner's family, was sure that he'd never heard the junior agent mention a niece, or even suggest that he wasn't an only child.

Apparently, David wasn't the only one thinking along that vein. "Colby," Megan ventured, "I didn't know you had siblings."

She made it sound congratulatory, but Colby snorted softly. "I don't have squat."

Their mouths worked for a moment before Don found his voice again. "Granger, I might not be the smart Eppes, but I do know how these things happen." He dropped the note of sarcasm, softening as he saw the young man's discomfiture. He leaned forward, planting his hands on the conference table, giving his youngest agent a concerned look. "Colb, man, you know we respect privacy, but why didn't you ever mention having a brother or sister? Why hide just the fact? You know we'd have been cool about it, we'd understand."

"No, I mean it-I don't have anything." Seeing their mystified looks, Colby turned to pace, running a hand through his hair and blowing out a breath. He turned back and, despite his discomfort, had to chuckle a little at Don's guppying. It helped in an odd way. "_I_ don't have a brother. Biologically, my father has two sons, and once every five or six years, I get to be one of them." That didn't seem to clear things up for them, and he hadn't really expected it to. Looking at the people, the friends with whom he trusted his life every day-the former SAC who'd taken a chance on him, the profiler who teased and conspired with him, and the partner who'd given up drinks with the team to come check on him-the former soldier sighed and sat on the desk in front of the projection screen.

"This is not a conversation I'd thought we'd ever have. It just tends to complicate things." He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "To be honest, I really don't know why it's coming up now. I'm the last person he'd think of for this; I'm the last person he thinks of, anyway. I do a pretty good job of not existing, and he does a pretty good job of pretending that I don't exist. He'd be thrilled to forget about me entirely, except the fact that I'm a big stupid sucker comes in handy from time to time."

Megan must have interpreted the undercurrent of self-deprecation in his tone; she sidled up to him and squeezed his shoulder. "Where is your father?"

"London. Cambridge. Kent." He shrugged. "He has houses all over England, at least one in the Med, maybe a couple of other places by now-basically anywhere he has long-term business interests. I'm pretty sure he's at least scouting in Japan and Portugal."

David whistled softly. "So your daddy's rich. What does he do, and how can I get a piece of that?"

Colby snorted but grinned a little, appreciating the humor uncolored by judgment. "Spend a couple years' pay on a suit and shoes and a watch, get a manicure, buy up a few dozen vineyards or olive groves, erase your identity, and pick an accent-any accent-that's not Yank." He watched David's disbelieving look, smiling faintly.

"Vineyards? Your father's in the wine business?" Megan was trying to form a picture of what she was hearing, and he was pretty sure that she was revamping her profile of him at the same time, though he was also pretty sure that she'd be disappointed at how little difference all of this really made.

"You could say that. He's not exactly the hugest player, but he owns a couple of labels. His real playground is in culinary ingredients-staples like olive oil, the most popular spices, additives and flavorings that you don't find even at the specialty markets. He deals only in high-end stuff, and only with high-end people. His business is taste, in every sense of the word; if you aren't very well-set in what he considers a properly classed society, he will grind you like cheap pepper."

"So, what, you told him you wouldn't play his game, and he cut you off? He wanted a Rachael Ray and he got a G.I. Joe?"

Colby snorted again. "Well, Rachael's a heck of a lot cuter, but no, he won't touch her with a ten-meter walking stick. He doesn't like America, has no respect for us as a society or as individuals. My mother is the sole exception." Colby stared into the past for a moment, and Megan inched closer, trying to lend support. "She was eighteen, just out of high school, and she and a friend had scrimped and saved for three years to spend a week in Europe before getting swallowed by adulthood. Their parents said it was a bad idea, that where those two went, trouble was sure to follow. The girls just wanted to experience something different, to pretend for a few days that they weren't hicks. Second day off the plane, they got mugged and found themselves stuck in Italy with no money and no luggage. Elsie wanted to call home right away, but Mom said that they'd just make the best of it for as long as they could, and maybe she'd think of a solution. So they bummed around in this city square for awhile, watching the people while Mom worked on a plan. She always thinks best when she's moving, so when a street musician started up, she started swaying to the music. Kicker is, she actually did come up with a plan to get them a place to stay.

"Anyway, that night a man in an expensive suit approached them and invited them to dine with his employer, and sheer curiosity convinced them to do it. The employer turned out to be a British businessman who'd noticed Mom in the square and just couldn't get her out of his head. The girls played it cool, pretending that they were rich and telling him that they'd sleep on his invitation to add London to their itinerary, and they agreed to meet for breakfast. Mom just smiled mysteriously when he asked the next morning why they hadn't changed clothes; a few hours later, his valet found them again and handed them their luggage and purses, summoning them to lunch, where the boss all but insisted that they come home with him the next morning. Well, my mom never took too well to orders; she stood up, loudly thanked him for his proposition, and walked out without touching her lunch." The team couldn't help but echo his fond grin at that. "He'd never been walked out on before, or publicly embarrassed that way, especially by a woman. That should've been the end of it; no one can say why it wasn't. What I do know is that the next morning when they came out of the hostel they'd found, his car and valet were there, waiting to take them to the airport. They were given a choice—tickets to O'Hare and from there to Boise, or seats to Heathrow. Elsie went home, but Mom didn't want to deal with all the questions and superior attitudes, so she went to London just to escape 'normal' for a few more days… and when she finally went home almost two years later with me in tow, she didn't look back. She'd rather face her own choices head-on than to waste time agonizing over someone else's."

Megan was thinking that she'd probably like Colby's mother. David was thinking that the whole story sounded like a made-for-TV movie—probably for one of those feminine channels where anything with a Y chromosome was automatically evil.

Don was thinking something much more practical. "Funny, nothing in your file said anything about the Bureau giving a badge to a foreign citizen." His tone and expression weren't condemning, but they weren't exactly tender, either. Colby felt a bit like he'd just been accused of breaking the cardinal rule of the house… someone else's house.

"Oh, you'd be surprised what British money can do to American files. And, for the record," and Colby snorted a bit at that, "I'm not a foreign citizen. Well, not entirely. My mom made sure of that." He saw his friends—or, at least, he hoped that they were still his friends—trade looks that ran the gamut from puzzled to suspicious, and he reflected that this was the one question he'd been most dreading ever since he'd enlisted in the Army, and the only one no one, not even Hermione, had ever asked. "My mom was charmed into loving and marrying Mitchum and becoming friends with her new step-son, and when she found out that she was pregnant, Mitchum was ecstatic, but by the time I was born, he'd pretty much gone on 'chill and serve' mode about me. He was still happy with her and treated her well, but she knew that there was something wrong, so she made friends with some of his solicitors and with some of the folks at the embassy, and she made sure that her kid would have dual citizenship. It's just that it's never mattered—Her Majesty, and His Superiorness, never wanted me, and have gone to some lengths to not have to acknowledge me. I've been to England twice since Mom moved me back here—once, for a photo op to show off his new granddaughter, and only Mitchum was trying to head off a smear campaign by a conservative business rival with a very good memory, and once during my second tour of duty. I was there for six weeks for therapy, made the news—not a peep from him."

Don winced at that; he actually could empathize with being estranged from family, but even at its worst, his situation had never been so dim that his father would have learned of him being hurt and not come. David really had no idea how that would feel, and he was glad, even as he wished that he could have a few minutes alone with 'His Superiorness.' "Made the news? In London? Why didn't someone make the connection then?" David would've thought that would make for great press.

"Because as soon as the photo op ran, Mitchum explained that my American mother kept me out of the spotlight for health reasons, and then he buried the piece somewhere below a report about pest control in the Tube. Since he's only a viscount, no one really cared after that."

But it was Megan's turn to pick up on something different. "Wait a second—Mitchum. Mitchum what?"

Colby met her eyes levelly. "Granger. Mom refused to change it. She raised me without his help, but she said that that didn't change the fact that I'd come from him—the money, the title, the country, all of that he could keep, but the minute I was conceived, the name became mine."

Megan turned a bit, ran her hand through her hair, and looked stunned… and a bit sick. "Mitchum Granger. Adonis Ricardi. Fantastic wine—Larry treated me to some on my birthday. I had to look it up to see who makes it and how much it runs, since he wouldn't let me see the check; one glass costs more than I make in a month." She turned back to her friend. "Doesn't seem so fantastic anymore."

Colby shrugged. "Drink what you like. It's cool. I've heard he does put out really good stuff, and there are a lot of people whose jobs go into it—he's just the owner, with a managing interest. Besides, all of that has nothing to do with me. That's sort of the point."

"No. No, it's really not cool; he's your father, and he's lucky to have you, and did you say viscount?"

Now Colby laughed outright at Reeves's ability to switch topics in mid-sentence. "Yeah, so?"

"Viscount? As in title? Your father is titled?"

Amused, and grateful for it, Colby put out a staying hand. "Now, now, don't get all excited. It's a courtesy title; it's not like we're in line for the throne. Well, not directly, anyway. Mitchum just has friends, and favors, in some interesting places. I'm sure that's a chunk of the reason he thinks he can order around everyone he sees. Richard'll probably be gifted a title, too, if he hasn't already. I'd ask Hermione, but I really don't care enough to bother, and I think she's got more important things on her mind." He didn't see the others' concerned expressions at his cryptic statement and the way his own expression had darkened. Colby glanced at his watch and jumped down from the desk. "Speaking of, I'm running late; I need to grab that paperwork and get back—I told her I'd only be gone for an hour."

No one tried to stop him, but Don briefly laid a bolstering hand on the back of Colby's shoulder as the younger man passed him. The team watched through the glass walls of the conference room as their junior member hastily gathered things from his desk and headed for the elevator bank, dialing his cell phone as he walked. "So…" Megan said as she slowly turned toward the others, "anyone else have a feeling that there's a lot more to this story?"

Don's eyes narrowed as he stared in the direction Colby had gone. "There always is, Reeves. There always is."


	7. Chapter 6

Orders 6

_This was going to be so easy, maybe almost boringly easy. _

_He was here, right here, in her grasp, so trusting, so naïve, so… perfect. Perfectly stupid. _

_He hadn't even so much as peaked inside her trunk, hadn't asked very many questions, hadn't seen the potion elements and wouldn't think anything of them, if he had—he wouldn't ever suspect her capable of such treachery, and by the time it was done, all he would know was how he couldn't imagine not obeying her voice._

_And oh, what that voice would make him do. . ._

When Colby let himself back into his apartment, Hermione was checking on the laundry in the dryer at the back of the small kitchen. He smiled at her and headed for the kitchen table, one arm full of files and the other weighed down with white plastic bags. He plunked down the bags on the scarred oval surface, then took the files into the living room and laid them on the small table next to his tattered old recliner. When he came back to the kitchen, his niece was trying to restart the dryer, frowning a little when the machine wouldn't cooperate. Grinning and shaking his head, Colby strode over and nudged her aside, then leaned over, put his hands on the sides of the machine, lifted it about an inch and a half, and then dropped it back into place. Hermione gasped and jumped, her eyes huge, and Colby chuckled. "Does that all the time. The drum tends to get caught, and if it can't turn, the clothes just bunch up and the air can't get between them. You know," he said, "I'm pretty sure I have some sweats around here that you can wear if you want to get comfortable while this thing decides to cooperate. Or I can call my neighbor downstairs—I think her granddaughter is about your age and might have something you can borrow."

"Oh! Oh, no, that's quite all right, thanks—I'm not all that uncomfortable like this, really. I have to wear a skirt under my robes at school, so really, this is normal for me."

"Robes?" Colby raised an eyebrow as he started to pull a rotisserie chicken, a bag of salad, and a small pan of cornbread from the grocery bags. "You actually have to wear robes at school? Where do you go, Oxford?" When the teenager didn't respond right away, he glanced sideways at her and noticed that she looked vaguely shocked. "Hey," he said, "I was only teasing. Where I'm from, we were doing good to afford shoes that fit; we didn't even think about uniforms for school."

She glanced up at him and put on a smile. "No, no, sorry, that's fine—I just wasn't . . . I didn't mean to bring up school again, that's all."

Colby's eyes stayed on her for a few moments longer than strictly necessary before he evidently decided to let it go. She was a little amazed, actually, at how much he seemed to let go or ignore or just not see, and she wondered whether she might've taken as keenness what was really just a slow mental processor. That would be just fine with her, or at least that's what she told herself—she really hadn't meant to bring up school, so at least she hadn't been dishonest, but really, why was she having trouble just keeping her mouth shut? Words had power, she'd always believed that, and more so after the debacle with Tom Riddle's diary . . . and her words had the power just now to destroy not just her comfort, but a great deal more. Colby was a nice enough guy, but she didn't want or need him asking questions for which she didn't have suitably dull answers.

Colby's voice broke into her thoughts. "Sorry, the eating around here really isn't fancy—tell you the truth, I'm usually not home much to eat, so there's not a whole lot on hand here. If you'll tell me what you like, we'll see what we can work out about eating better while you're here."

However slow he might be, he was sweet, she'd give him that. "Oh, no, this is good—I really don't do much cooking myself, and I don't need anything fancy. Most days I could get by on toast and pumpkin juice." Hermione jumped in and started finding and pulling down dishes, doing her best to swallow her hitched breaths at the stretching and hoping that he wouldn't make a big deal of what she'd said—especially since she didn't want to explain that, before today, she'd also never tried to do her own laundry, and she'd knocked her wand into the washer by mistake and then nearly got stuck head-down in the basket trying to retrieve it. She really hated to admit it to herself, but she missed the house-elves, and the ability to wave her wand and take care of mundane tasks herself, and pretty much everything else about the magical world. She wondered how the boys were faring . . .

She didn't see Colby mouthing 'pumpkin juice' to himself.

After a quiet lunch, Colby stuck the dishes in the dishwasher while Hermione stowed the leftovers in the fridge, and then she followed him into the living room. He headed over to his chair, sat down, and smiled back at her. "I'm just gonna work on some reports and stuff; you're welcome to be in here to watch tv or read or whatever. Believe me—you won't disturb me. I could rattle off this kind of stuff in the middle of a mortar attack. Have, actually."

His casual statement had her glancing over at his photographs, and she nearly asked about them, but decided that she wasn't ready for that yet—she felt like she was holding herself together pretty well, but she didn't quite trust herself for a conversation about battles yet. "Oh, thanks, really, but I think, if you don't mind, I think I'll go see if my clothes are dry." At his nod, Hermione turned and headed back toward the laundry nook.

"Oh, and kiddo, you might try taking a hot bath—might help those ribs some."

The teenager froze at his quiet, knowing words, but didn't trust herself to turn or speak, so she just nodded. Evidently, she needed to work a bit harder on her stiff upper lip.

Hot water, vanilla bath salts, and a long soak with a book on the history of alchemy had, in fact, done some good for her sore ribs and sternum, and an essay comparing Celtic and South American runes, as well as a small batch of powder from her potions kit, had helped to re-center her mind on the issues at hand. She hoped that the work would help her remember how important it was to keep her lives separate.

Hermione had just come out to the kitchen, intent on mixing Colby a little of her special tea, when someone knocked on the door. The girl hastily slipped a packet between the mug rack and the splash guard and turned just in time to see the man rise from his chair, the movement smooth and practiced, his right hand behind him. He waved her back into the kitchen before opening the door to find . . .

. . . a tall, blonde woman standing in the one-armed embrace of a small man with curly hair the color of sand (actually, most of him was the color of sand) and cheerful hazel eyes.

Colby blinked. "Megan? Professor Fleinhardt?" His right hand floated down to his side, and Hermione caught just a glimpse of something gray between his partially-tucked green polo and the waistband of his jeans. "Um, hi?"

The little man chuckled softly. "Really, eighteen-year-olds call me Professor Fleinhardt. I'm pretty sure it's acceptable for you to call me Larry. I just came by because I happened to be in the area and wanted to check in with you. Megan said that you weren't at work today. Is everything all right?"

Colby seemed to relax a bit. "Well, now I feel old. Thanks for checking-yeah, I'm fine. I just took a couple of personal days." Understanding that either his teammate hadn't told Larry what was going on with Colby, or the older man was content to let the younger man decide for himself whether to share, Colby glanced over at Hermione in warning and then opened the door wider. "Actually, my niece just flew in yesterday to visit, and I've been getting her settled in. Come on in, have a seat."

The couple nodded their thanks and walked into the apartment, glancing around the small living area before catching sight of the teenager in gray knit pants and a rose-colored t-shirt. Both offered her a gentle smile and a hand. "Hello!"

Hermione shook the woman's hand with a nod and then took the man's hand, giggling in surprise when he kissed it. "How do you do? I'm Hermione."

"Ah!" The gentleman—Larry—seemed to light up a bit. "The daughter of Helen and Menelaus! And you're certainly beautiful enough to start a few wars of your own."

Hermione blushed hard at that, and though she smiled, she didn't see Megan glance at Colby, or Colby nod to Megan that he'd also seen the shadow that had brushed the young girl's eyes at the mention of wars. "Why, thank you! I . . . I don't know quite what to say to that. I am impressed, though; I can count on one hand the number of people I've met who have heard of that myth, and have fingers left over." She supposed that, given her age and his, she should feel a bit creeped out by his comment, but when she looked into his eyes, she saw nothing but sweet sincerity.

"Oh, you'll have to forgive Larry, Hermione," Megan said with a playful grin. "He considers flirting a scientific imperative." She winked at the teenager and got a genuine grin in return.

"Nonsense! I was simply raised to appreciate the loveliness of every woman." The charming professor and the schoolgirl shared a smile while the other two adults rolled their eyes in fond exasperation.

Colby invited his friends to take a seat in the living room, and Hermione scrambled into the kitchen to fix tea for all of them—British-style, with a little something special for the two men. She steeped while the adults chatted, mostly about Larry and Megan's evening so far (apparently, the two were dating, which Hermione found all the sweeter for their ostensible mismatch) and Larry's workday. By the time the teenager got back to the living room with the tray of mugs, she'd gleaned that the middle-aged gentleman taught in the science department at a local university, and that he'd had to break up an argument between someone named Charles and someone named Penfield about the possible of paranormal abilities. Colby seemed especially amused by this.

The group accepted their tea with good grace, Colby being the only one who hesitated and ruefully admitted that he wasn't a big tea-drinker. Megan seemed to enjoy hers, and Larry was openly pleased with the British style and the unique notes. Hermione explained that she and Megan had a typical English style, while she'd given the men Earl Grey with a little twist of her own. Larry tried to guess what the twist might be, while Colby just saluted her with his mug, telling her with his eyes that he appreciated both her thoughtfulness and the tea itself.

Hermione just smiled into her own cup. This was so easy.

About half an hour later, Colby got up to get something from the kitchen and asked Hermione to come with him. They left Larry and Megan comparing their experiences with English food.

"Hey, I'm sorry about all this. I didn't know they were coming, or I'd have made sure that you were okay with that." Colby was genuinely worried about Hermione's feelings on unexpected guests.

"No, it's fine—I rather like your friends," the girl assured him. "Really, I've no idea how long I'm expected to be in your hair, and there's no sense in you not being able to have your friends 'round, or go out with them, just as you normally would. Besides, I'm feeling much better; the jet lag seems to have got bored and left." She offered him a reassuring smile. She meant what she'd said—she did like his friends, though she couldn't quite shake the feeling that Megan was watching her.

"Okay, let's get something straight right now," Colby said firmly, straightening and locking his eyes onto hers. "You are not in my hair. You are family, you're a pretty great kid from what I've seen so far, and no matter who ordered whom to do what, you're here and you'll always be welcome. Hear me?" He waited until she nodded, then relaxed again. "Cool. Now—I gotta tell you that those two are just sort of representatives of the two groups I spend most of my time with; I have to go back to work tomorrow, and I'd kind of like for you to know who you can go to if for some reason you can't get hold of me, so how would you feel about inviting the rest of the scoobies for dinner? If you're not up to a small crowd, just say so, and we'll think of something else . . ."

But Hermione was already nodding. "That'd be nice, actually—I'm sure at least one of your friends can tell me some interesting stories about you." She shot him a teasing grin and got her ponytail mussed for her trouble.

"Bratlet."

"Hey!" Hermione turned to follow him as he brushed past her, headed for a small wall hook that held a number of take-out menus in clear sleeves. "That's Lady Bratlet to you!" His rumbling chuckle filled the small apartment.

Ponytail tidied, Hermione opened the apartment door, knowing that Colby was tied up with Larry and Megan and a black man he'd introduced as David. Before she could do more than open her mouth to speak to the two dark-haired men in the hallway, Colby was behind her, leaning down to murmur a reminder to use the peephole or, better yet, just let him answer the door. She wasn't quite sure what he was worried about—she was nearly an adult, after all, and probably much more equipped to take care of herself than this gentle giant was to protect himself—but she let it go and put on a welcoming smile for the guests.

Colby introduced her to them, and stated that the taller one was his boss and the one with the 'Yiddish Fro' just might be her new best friend. When the two had come in and found seats in the now-crowded little living room, and Larry had taken orders for the Chinese food he'd insisted on paying for, Hermione found herself in the kitchen, bidden to fix more tea for everyone. She felt a bit dizzy at the assortment of people and was amused to be fixing Earl Grey for David, who claimed that he'd never had hot tea. When she came back, balancing a full tray of mugs and thinking that she'd have to grind up some more of her mixture if Colby kept bringing her volunteers, she came across David asking Charlie and Larry a question about transoceanic travel. That somehow evolved into a conversation about Atlantis and the Bermuda Triangle Effect, neither of which Charlie would even entertain as possible fact. The girl settled herself in the chair she'd carried over from the kitchen and let the conversation wash over her until Larry mentioned a theory involving alien technology under Antarctica shifting the magnetic South Pole close enough to destabilize the Triangle and cause the legendary phenomena.

"Hasn't that been disproven?"

Every head in the room swivelled toward her, and Hermione thought that maybe speaking up had been ill-advised . . . until Charlie grinned. "Ah, a voice of reason—and so young, too! I hadn't been aware of anyone taking it seriously enough to bother trying to debunk it; what have you heard?"

Now, Hermione knew perfectly well that the whole mess had nothing to do with alien technology—the Bermuda Triangle was actually the irreparable damage left by a group of Ravenclaws who'd been trying to transfigure the island into a dragon for extra credit—but she couldn't very well say that, so she smiled gamely and said, "Well, I don't know if they've actually done scans under the ice shelf, but I thought I'd heard somewhere . . ." And she and the two professors spent the next hour in a lively debate involving math, physics, paranormality, and a girl who kept turning Charlie's arguments back on him. The other four people in the room, the captive audience, traded looks, having their own silent conversation: Megan was telling Colby that this had been a good idea for Hermione, David was pretending to have a headache from all of the academia, Colby was attempting to keep score, and Don couldn't seem to stop laughing.

Hermione went to bed that night realizing two things: she still didn't know what Colby did for a living, as it had never come up in conversation; and she liked Larry and Charlie immensely, despite Charlie's utter lack of faith in anything he couldn't quantify. The two professors made her feel at home, in some ways more so than she felt at Hogwarts—they were friendly, expressive, and lively, and she didn't have to answer to either of them. They were obviously close, and she could only hope that she could one day have such a stimulating friendship with one of her former professors.

Too bad she couldn't reeducate them a bit.


End file.
